Queen of my Hart - Emily Royal Page 0,10
too much?” Meggie asked. “You’re…”
“I’m someone far above you in station,” Elizabeth interrupted, her words coming out in a snarl. “And I’ll be there to service Dexter when he tires of you.”
“Elizabeth!” a voice spoke sharply.
Meggie turned and came face to face with Alderley.
“Papa,” Elizabeth said, her cultured tone of voice returning. “I was just wishing my sister all the happiness she deserves.”
“Quite so,” he said. “But you mustn’t neglect the other guests.” He frowned at Meggie as if he believed her mere presence would taint Elizabeth.
Meggie drained her glass and curtseyed. “Let me take my leave instead.”
Before they could respond, she moved away, pausing only to place her empty glass on a tray brandished by the footman who’d glared at her before. She set it down with a clang and gave him a sweet smile when he flinched.
Let him flinch! Let them all cringe at her presence! She had never felt so bold. But her boldness came hand in hand with dizziness. The room had grown overly hot, and she moved toward the window where, at least, the air was cooler.
Nausea rippling through her, she focused her attention on the view from the window. But the manicured lawn surrounded by hedges clipped into ugly, angular shapes only served to emphasize her inferiority.
“Mrs. Hart,” a male voice said.
Ignoring it, she watched a pheasant stride across the lawn, trailing a long tail of brown feathers, the iridescence on its glossy blue-green head resembling an exotic jewel. A large dog bounded onto the lawn, and the bird launched itself off the ground with a series of squawks and flapping of wings.
If only Meggie could do the same and launch her ungainly, inelegant person through this very window and away from these people.
A hand touched her elbow, and she jumped and gave a low cry.
It was the angel from the chapel.
“Forgive me, Mrs. Hart,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Mrs. Hart.
No longer was she Meggie, or even Margaret Alder. She had lost her name as well as her freedom. She was now defined by the man who owned her, Dexter Hart.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I find it strange to find myself…” she gestured to herself, “…to find…”
“…that you must be addressed by a name which, until a sennight ago, you’d never heard of?”
Her cheeks warmed with embarrassment. “N-no, of course not.”
“There’s no need for apologies,” he said. A gentle hand touched her arm, and he smiled. “Those of us able to direct our lives often fail to appreciate that others are not so fortunate. I understand the fear you must feel.”
“I’m not afraid, sir.”
He smiled, and she blushed. His direct gaze seemed to penetrate her thoughts and recognize the lie. “Then you’re braver than most, in having conquered it.”
He gave a deep bow and clicked his heels together. “Permit me to introduce myself,” he said. “Oliver Peyton, at your service.”
She held out her hand. “Mr. Peyton.”
He took it and lifted it to his lips. “A pleasure, madam,” he said. “May I take the liberty of giving you some advice regarding the state of fear?”
“Please do.”
“Knowledge,” he said, “is the most effective cure for fear.”
“I have knowledge enough,” she said. “Just because I’m beneath everyone here, including the footmen, doesn’t mean I lack education.”
He smiled. “Intelligence and knowledge don’t always walk hand in hand,” he said. “An excellent Latin scholar may know nothing of modern languages. He—or she—may quake with fear when faced with the French tongue, lest his ignorance of it is exposed to the world.”
“And on what topic do you consider me lacking in knowledge?”
“On my friend.” He nodded toward the groom, who was deep in conversation with Alderley, while Elizabeth watched from a distance, a dark scowl on her face.
“Let me increase your level of knowledge as far as I can,” Mr. Peyton continued. “My friend listens more than he speaks. He lives in a difficult world and has to be hard to thrive within it.”
“Why are you telling me this?” she asked. “Do you wish to make me afraid?”
“Quite the opposite,” he replied. “Don’t take much notice of his demeanor. He may be uncompromising, but he’s not a cruel man. He’s straight and true, and I know of none fairer, nor as honorable.”
“And do fairness and honor lead to happiness?” she asked, her husband’s words about victory and bargains ringing in her head. “A quest for fairness is little more than a thirst for retribution. Honor is no better, for it’s a concept used to justify vengeance.”
He smiled.